Pasternek's poems are like the flash of a strobe light--for an instant they reveal a corner of the universe not visible to the naked eye... They were magical, fragments of the natural world captured in words that I did not always understand....
I'll never forget that sunny day at Peredelkino in the winter of 1959-1960, a few months before Pasternak died. The sparkling snow, the fir trees, the half torn note pinned to the door on the veranda at the side of the house: "I am working now. I cannot receive anybody. Please go away." On an impulse, thinking of the small gifts I was bringing the poet from admirers in the West, I did knock. The door opened.
Pasternak stood there wearing an astrakhan hat. When I introduced myself he welcomed me cordially as my father's daughter--they had met in Berlin in the twenties. Pasternak's intonations were those of his poems. In an instant the warm, slightly nasal singsong voice assured me that my parents' country still existed and that it had a future as real as that sunny day. Today, no matter how harsh life in Russia is, that flash of feeling is proven true. Russia has survived, and the natural world around us which Pasternak celebrated is as wondrous as ever.
--- from “Russian Portraits" （Random House ”the Russsian Century")